


Canvas

by bluebright



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, POV Second Person, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7827259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebright/pseuds/bluebright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first sixteen years of Sinbad's life are illustrated in scars across the canvas of his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canvas

_**I.** _

When you were a kid, you wanted to be like your father. You still want to be like him, but it was far more apparent then. You followed him to the beach as often as you could, begging him weekly to let you accompany him. Once or twice you even beat him there, hiding beneath a pile of nets in the bow of the boat, eager to prove that you can be a good a sailor as he is. Every time, he tells you he'll take you out when you're older, but that doesn't stop you from racing him to the boat every other morning, hoping maybe this time he'll change his mind.

You're four years old when you trip on the rocky shore and cut your hand. Your mother fusses while your father simply laughs, proudly proclaiming it'll take more than a couple rocks to take his boy down. You puff out your chest, but otherwise sit still as your mother bandages your wound. She checks it every day for the next week, but it still leaves a small scar; none of you expect that it will be the first of many.

 

_**II.** _

You like Darius - he's a kind man and an excellent storyteller. Every night you listen intently as he weaves tales of golden dunes in the deserts of Sasan, silver snow on the winds of Imuchakk, bronze mountains surrounding the nation of Artemyra, and so on and so forth. The more you hear, the more eager you are to see it all with your own eyes. Never before have you left the sanctuary of the village you were born in, and nor have you considered what awaits outside its boundaries. Darius inspires you to explore the vast world around you. He encourages you despite your age, not once looking down on you for being so young. If anything, he seems pleased that you've taken such an interest in him and his stories.

Why, then, has it turned out like this?

Darius holds you by the back of your shirt, dangling you before the gathered crowd like meat before a pack of wild dogs. He must think your life matters to them, the life of an expatriate's child. When asked if they would do anything to save you, the villagers murmur in dissent. It's terrible to watch someone die, they say, but if it's the child of an expatriate, there's nothing to be done. Displeased with their refusal to act, Darius touches his blade to your throat. You are only five years old, and you don't understand why no one has come to your rescue. Your mother is doing the best she can, but as long as no one is willing to help her, there's little she can do.

Your father fares no better when he falls to his knees and begs for your freedom. You've never seen him so scared, not even when his own well-being was in danger. His fear scares you more than the blade at your throat, for you know that a war hero like him has seen many terrible things. But he doesn't let his fear shake him... not until the blade is in your mouth, drawing blood from inside your body, and he cracks. He grabs the blade with his own hands, pulling it from your body and you from the traitor's arms. You watch in terror as your father repays his crimes with his own blade, sputtering tears and blood onto his robes all the while. It takes quite some time for you to stop crying, and even then, the fear lingers.

You don't know if Darius's blade scarred your mouth that day, but his actions certainly scarred your young heart.

 

_**III.** _

There are no men in your village but you. The rest have all been drafted into the military, taken from their homes and families without notice or choice. You've always known they would come for you, but you didn't expect it would be so soon.

You're only fourteen when the official summons arrives. Three soldiers deliver it to you, reading off of a scroll they don't bother showing you under the assumption that you can't read. (You can't, but the assumption angers you nonetheless.) When the youngest of them mentions what an _honor_ it is to be chosen as a soldier of Parthevia, your anger and impatience get the best of you. You cut him off instantly, refuting his lies with passion, because you know better than anyone that being **forced** into mandatory military service is not an honor - it is a **death sentence** , and you want no part of it.

The moment you refuse, the biggest of the three shove you onto the ground and keep you in place with their blades. You can feel blood trickling from your shoulder, but you don't care about much more than making this man (this _child,_ you think, because he can't be much older than you) see your side of things. He doesn't, of course; he simply reiterates that you ought to consider it an honor.

To your country, you are but a resource, a single piece of manpower meant only to further the goals of your country. No matter how much you disagree, no matter how loudly you yell... orders are orders, as you both know well. If you enlist, you'll die in battle. If you refuse, you'll be put to death for treason. The dilemma distracts you so thoroughly that you forget to treat your injuries for several hours. The one on your shoulder scars, but you don't notice for several weeks. By that time, it could have come from any number of things, but you have a feeling you know exactly where it's from.

 

_**IV.** _

You meet that same young general - **D** **rakon,** you call him - in Baal's dungeon. He's immensely frustrating, both in his mannerisms and his beliefs, but you work well together in times of trouble. Nevertheless, you're hardly surprised when your temporary alliance ends in a duel. Only through teamwork do you make it to the treasure room, yet the power of a king can only be granted to one person and one person alone.

You are both strong in your convictions, each determined to earn Baal's acknowledgement, and with it, his power. Drakon plans to present that power to the emperor, thus fueling the flames of war and adding more names to the list of casualties needlessly amassed over the course of it. This is precisely the kind of tragedy you aim to prevent, not only by stopping him now, but by creating a world in which such a situation is no longer possible. You don't know how you'll do it, not yet, but you know that Baal's power is the key to making your dream a reality.

As a military general, Drakon's swordplay far exceeds yours. He disarms you with little trouble and forces you to the ground as if it were nothing. Were this a game, you would certainly be defeated - but as you tell him time and time again, you simply cannot lose. You catch his blade with both hands, stopping it before it reaches your neck. The scars left behind will later remind you of your friend, but for now, he is your opponent and nothing more. You cannot afford to lose here, because losing here - losing to _him,_ a man born and raised as nobility - will mean the world continues on the same worn path, further displacing the common folk as the rich rise to the top. The world you wish to create is one of fairness and equality, and that is why you fight.

One day, you hope Drakon can understand that.

 

_**V.** _

No matter what you tell her, Lady Maader is not a kind or noble woman. She is the devil incarnate, a snake of a woman who hides her fangs behind false smiles. You do not love her as you claim. You might even hate her, but you can't say for sure. You can't say much at all because you're _terrified_ of the consequences. Every time you open your mouth, Maader regards you with disappointment and scorn. No matter what you say, no matter how hard you try to please her... she never accepts it. She never accepts _you,_ and you wonder why that hurts.

But then, everything hurts. Your body, your heart, your mind - all of it alternates between dull aches and screaming agony. There is no end to your punishment, no rest for your increasingly fragile soul... but Maader doesn't seem to care. She **never** cares - not for you, who has caused her so much trouble. Never for you. You wonder if that's true - if she'll never come to care for you as she does the rest of the slaves in her possession. You wonder why, and if it's really worth the energy to keep trying.

Eventually, you stop. It isn't a conscious decision, nor something you truly notice in the first place. For weeks, you suffer through the agony of your punishment, which has long evolved into outright torture... until one day, it stops. Not the punishment - no, you doubt that will ever truly end - but the suffering you experience because of it. Your body still aches with each blade pressed into your skin, but your heart no longer twists when Maader rejects you, and your mind no longer reels as you try to understand why. You become numb in heart and soul, leaving only your body to accept the punishment you apparently deserve.

 

_**VI.** _

When Rurumu asks if you'd like her help treating your wounds, you answer her with silence. The truth is that you would prefer to handle it on your own, but you know that the size and placement will make some of them impossible to reach. You have no choice but to bare your body to another, and the fear in your heart dictates that it mustn't be her. In time, you think, you'll open yourself up to her once more, but you've barely been free an hour and the pain is still too fresh.

In the end, it is Ja'far who sees and treats your wounds. At first, you wonder why he doesn't react to the burned flesh that twists across your back and shoulder, or the raw skin where the shackles bound you. You soon realize he must have seen far worse as an assassin and find yourself relaxing into his gentle touch. Only when he touches the raw skin on your neck does he react, and even then you assume it has less to do with the wound itself and more to do with the way you flinch away the moment his fingertips brush against your throat.

Despite his best efforts and your meticulous upkeep, the worst of the injuries you sustained at Maader's bequest will scar, further illustrating the tales of your adventures across the canvas of your body.

**Author's Note:**

> i could rewrite it in third person, maybe. also! feel free to send me suggestions / requests for drabbles or stories here or on tumblr. i'll do them in third person unless asked to do otherwise, i promise.
> 
> TUMBLR: aqua  
> TWITTER: crocells


End file.
